


Minor Irritations

by Anonymous



Series: Minor Irritations [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chapter 2 added, Desperation, Fluff, Fluff and Smut and Piss, Good Omens Kink Meme Fill, If that's not a tag now it is, M/M, Omorashi, This will not be everyone's thing and this is fine!, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley could do this.Crowleycoulddo this.Crowley wanted nothing more than to relax and let all the pressure out in a warm rush onto the floor.Aziraphale was watching him, though, lips slightly parted, eyes trained unmoving on his face. He was hard, Crowley saw, making the effort. All of that attention, all of that awareness and desire and fixation, focused solely on him. It was dizzying.Although maybe that was just the desperation.An Ineffable Husbands fic/series centered on omorashi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains omorashi, which is a kink for pee desperation and wetting. No judgment if that's not your thing and you want to bail out now. 
> 
> Based on this prompt from the Good Omens kink meme: 
> 
> Crowley's really, really gotta piss; Aziraphale won't let him.  
> Actual wetting optional (or Aziraphale can take pity on him), can segue into sex or not, whatever. Alcohol-related drunken pissing is fine. Vastly prefer Crowley having a dick.
> 
> Hope I managed to follow the spirit of the prompt and not just the letter!

There _had_ to be a reason that Crowley still had a bladder. 

He was fairly certain that if he stopped to think about it for long enough, it would come back to him. 

The problem with this plan was that whenever he tried to stop and think about it, he became distracted by how _full_ and _uncomfortable_ the blessed thing was and lost his train of thought. The whole endeavor - both the bladder and the train of thought - was also hindered by the truly impressive amount of wine he had been drinking. 

“Angel,” he said, very seriously. Aziraphale, who was still sitting neatly on the edge of the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, looked down at him. (Crowley was currently lying on his back on the wooden floor with his feet up on the other sofa cushion. This was not an unusual position for him to be in while drinking in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop.) “I can’t remember what I’ve got a bladder for.” 

“Urine, I’d imagine,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t say I’ve ever bothered to use mine. Not nearly as pleasant as drinking, is it? Expelling everything the human way?” He looked down into his wine glass and swirled it. “Though expelling it our way can’t be said to be as pleasant as drinking, either.” He shrugged, apparently not put off the drink either way, and took another sip. 

“Mmfh,” said Crowley. “Was sure I got rid of the blasted thing after 1832.” Maybe he’d fashioned himself one for a temptation and then forgotten, and had just always managed to sober up before using it. (Although the sort of complex temptations that required new internal organs had definitely fallen off after the Apocawasn’t. Nowadays he tended to prefer minor irritations. Irritations like - well, like an inconvenient need to piss when you least wanted it. Crowley was having trouble remembering all the other irritations, enmeshed as he was in this one, but he was sure there were more of them.) 

Right then, enough was enough. He’d already left it too long wondering about why he had the damned/blessed bladder in the first place. With a groan, he disentangled his legs from the sofa and got to his feet. As soon as he did, gravity made itself known: his bladder cramped, and for a moment, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and his thighs together, whining near-silently through his teeth. Worse than he’d thought. 

He realized when it passed that he’d hunched ever-so-slightly over, and straightened with a half-embarrassed shrug. A quick miracle, get rid of the entire offending set of organs and anything in them, and they could get back to drinking and talking about - whatever they’d been talking about. 

He’d barely extended his hand before Aziraphale spoke. “Ah - my dear -” 

“Hmm?” Crowley flicked his eyes over. Aziraphale was a bit flushed, but no more than would be expected with the amount they’d drunk. He’d set his wineglass down on the little table beside the sofa - far out of reach of any books - and was watching Crowley with an odd, intent look. 

“Well, I - that is - would it be so terrible if you _didn’t_ miracle it away?” 

Crowley raised one eyebrow and didn’t answer. 

“Oh, _don’t_ give me that look, I only -” he fidgeted endearingly. Crowley fidgeted in a way he imagined to be less endearing, but he couldn't help it. “It’s just that you’re terribly interesting to watch like this.” 

Crowley wasted a few moments debating whether “interesting” was better or worse than “nice”. And then a few more moments interrupting himself by thinking about how badly he had to piss. Only then did it click. 

“You’re getting off on this, Angel! Aren’t you!” It came out both somewhat delighted and much louder than he’d intended, but the bookshop was angelically warded anyway. Probably made it soundproof. If it didn’t, what were angelic wards even good for? 

“Oh, if you _must_ put it like that, then yes,” muttered Aziraphale, at a much more suitable volume. He was now more flushed than could be reasonably blamed on alcohol. “I merely… well, you’re quite compelling when you lose control, you see.” 

Crowley ran this delightful information over in his head, and then mustered up what remained of his focus (which had been shot all to pieces) and managed to sober up just enough that he could think clearly again. From the looks of it, so had Aziraphale, though he was still a touch too red. 

It wasn’t that they hadn’t fucked while drunk before (though Aziraphale would take offense to hear it called that. He preferred _made love_ or even _had sex._ Crowley supposed he loved him enough that it didn’t matter), but this seemed like something they should talk about for at least a few seconds before jumping right in. Maybe even as many as thirty. So sobriety it was. 

Sobering up, for all that it was conducive to conversations, did nothing to help Crowley’s overfull bladder. He supposed the liquid already in there wasn’t in his bloodstream anymore, and then decided to stop thinking so hard about how all of this worked before he gave himself a headache on top of it all. His fingers were already drumming out an impatient rhythm on his thigh, over his jeans, and his toes curled and uncurled in his shoes. 

“So, angel,” he said, once his vision was a bit clearer and his mouth a bit dryer. “If I don’t miracle the organs away, you realize this means I’ll piss myself on your nice bookshop floor?” 

“I’m sure it can be cleaned,” Aziraphale said primly. “There aren’t any books back here, anyway.”

“Right, then. As long as there aren’t any _books._ My _clothes_ aren’t a problem-” Crowley wasn’t even paying much attention to the words coming out of his mouth. His bladder was busy turning itself upside down at the thought of relief. He wasn’t, in all honesty, terribly worried about the clothes - they were miracled up anyway - so if Aziraphale wanted to see him piss on the floor, and would keep making that flushed, intrigued expression while he did, far be it from him to deny an angel. Or something of that sort. 

He hadn’t urinated in… decades? Centuries?, so it took a moment to even begin to relax, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. But there was _so much_ liquid that seemed to be uncomfortably contained in the space between his hips, and it was so difficult to think about anything else, that after that moment his dick twitched and a few drops slid out to wet the front of his jeans in a tiny circular spot. Not nearly enough to make a difference in his level of desperation, but enough that the rest of it seemed to notice an exit, so it surely wouldn’t be long until - 

_“Crowley!”_

“Ngh - _what?”_ With a wince, Crowley gripped at himself through the front of his trousers, stopping what few dribbles were already on their way out. 

“You were going to let go on purpose!” 

“Well, of course I bloody well was, I can barely think like this!” Starting to relieve himself - even just a tiny trickle’s worth - and then stopping was agony. Before he even realized it, he found himself shifting his weight from side to side, foot to foot. He was actually _squirming_. Humiliating. “I thought you wanted me to?” 

“Well, yes,” huffed Aziraphale, “but if it’s on purpose, you’re not losing control, are you?” He looked Crowley over as though assessing his state, then poured another glass of wine and held it out to him. “Drink.” 

“Angel.” 

_“Drink.”_

Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale, unfortunately, and so he took the glass with his free hand and drank. 

Even a liquid as dry as red wine seemed too much. It slid down his throat and made his bladder spasm again, the very idea of more fluid anywhere in his body making him shudder. Still, he drained the cup without leaking and set it aside, removing his other hand from his crotch when he realized it was still there. Ridiculous. 

Crowley could do this. 

Crowley _could_ do this. 

Crowley wanted nothing more than to relax and let all the pressure out in a warm rush onto the floor. 

Aziraphale was watching him, though, lips slightly parted, eyes trained unmoving on his face. He was hard, Crowley saw, making the effort. All of that attention, all of that awareness and desire and fixation, focused solely on him. It was dizzying. 

Although maybe that was just the desperation. 

He didn’t know how it happened, but the minutes stretched by and he didn’t break. His control frayed, but held, as he paced the floor and cursed or blessed under his breath, legs shaking. It was all he could think about - when he’d get to let go. How. The tight pressure dissipating as he pissed as hard as he could, as fast as he could, anything to just let _go_ \- 

A cramp ran through him, his knees bending and legs spreading involuntarily. Another small stream dribbled from the tip of his cock, and he sucked in a panicked breath, snapping his thighs back together. 

“ _Aziraphale_ -” 

“A bit longer, darling?” 

Aziraphale’s voice was rough, but he wasn’t touching himself. That would have broken the intense focus he had on Crowley. Sitting there, staring at him with blown pupils, he was a vision. 

A bit longer it was, then. 

Crowley wondered briefly if he should just get rid of his penis altogether, destroy any way for the liquid to free itself. Though that would, he supposed, ruin the point, and _God he had to go so badly, he couldn’t think._

He couldn’t seem to keep still. Shaking, pacing. Pacing, shaking. Every so often, there was another cramp or gasp, and another spurt would darken the front of his (already black) trousers. 

Crowley was near the sofa when his legs gave out. He sank to his knees, sitting back on his heels, though he couldn’t convince his hips to stop moving, bouncing, desperately seeking some position that might bring relief. Aziraphale, face almost reverent, moved to kneel in front of him. 

“I can’t,” gasped Crowley, around a strangled groan as his body forced out a two-second long stream. _That_ was enough to feel, a hint of the respite he could have, a spread of warmth over his lap. He had never wanted to piss himself before, but he desperately did now, more than he wanted nearly anything else in the world. “I can’t, I can’t - Angel - I can’t -” 

Aziraphale miracled up a glass of clear water. Crowley shook his head, unable to speak. 

“For me, dear?” 

“I - hngh - you’re going to kill me.” He shook his head again, but reached for the glass, tilting it upward and pouring it down his throat in one long swallow. 

“I certainly hope not.”

There wasn’t time for it to reach his bladder, but there didn’t need to be. Just the sensation, for a moment, had Crowley’s body snatching control back from him, leaning back and spreading his legs, trying to force the piss out on its own. Crowley let out another weak moan, fingers drumming frantically on the floorboards. 

“I _can’t,_ Angel!"

“All right, my dear, that’s all right.” When Crowley only looked up in pained confusion, Aziraphale reached out to stroke the hair away from his face. “If you can’t keep waiting, that’s all right.” 

It was all he needed. This time, the sharp, angry spasm ran through him, and he didn’t fight it. The human form took over, its legs falling open, muscles frantically contracting and leaving him helpless to do anything but stare down at the outline of his cock through his tight jeans as liquid burst from it in an uncontrollable, _exquisite_ rush.

And _oh._ So that was how it felt. 

Crowley was aware that a puddle was spreading across the floor, but he absolutely was not capable of stopping, not now that he’d finally given in. For that matter, he was not capable of doing anything that wasn’t continuing to empty himself onto the floor until there was nothing left. So he just dropped his head forward and moaned quietly, over the faint hissing sound. 

And what a relief it was. His legs were warm, and he bore down for a moment, startling another sound from his throat as the stream increased, running over his legs before falling in steady streams to the ground. 

“I couldn’t,” he said, eyes falling closed, and heard Aziraphale hum in agreement. “I had to -”

“I know, dear boy. It’s all right.” 

He didn’t stop for what felt like hours, though it was probably only a minute or two. Nearly empty, he lifted his shirt with some curiosity and pressed down where the swell of his bladder had been. Another short stream hissed forth into his (now utterly drenched) jeans, and then nothing more. 

A beat of silence.

Being _empty_ was such a pleasant feeling. Crowley lifted his head, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes - and didn’t Aziraphale look wrecked, pupils huge, breath slightly ragged. He swallowed hard before waving a hand to clear the mess from Crowley’s skin and clothes (and the floor,) never looking away from his face. 

“Bed, angel?” Crowley asked, and his voice was only slightly rough. 

“Bed,” Aziraphale agreed, and pulled him to his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, no longer guided by a kinkmeme prompt: I am going to write the most romantic damn piss fic ever known to humankind
> 
> Mind the rating change!

Aziraphale was content. 

Crowley knew this because Aziraphale was doing inventory. In theory. Since the bookshop did inventory perfectly well by itself, in practice this meant he was staring at a pile of his more favored books, moving one a few inches, and then writing something down on a nearby paper. Every so often he would make a pleased _hmm_ sound, move the book again, and nod approvingly. 

Crowley wasn’t certain if this was all for show or if there was an actual purpose to the book’s migration pattern. He had been doing this for almost two hours, though, while Crowley watched him affectionately (and only pretended not to for half of that time.) 

It was a very nice afternoon, in Crowley’s opinion. He had spent most of the morning making sure that everyone who got on the Tube tried to take the last empty seat only to find that it had someone’s chewed gum on the backrest and all had to either endure it or awkwardly stand up again. He had yelled at the plants. He had then wandered his way back to the bookshop (Crowley had given up on pretending to still live in Mayfair and mostly slept on the sofa in the back room) and let Aziraphale beam at him for a while. Crowley had pressed kisses to his hair, his face, his lips, still reveling after months in his ability to do so, until Aziraphale laughed, shone a bunch of angelic love in his face, and waved him off so he could do whatever happy nonsense he was doing with his pile of books. 

Which led to where he was now, half-leaning on one of the shelves, watching Aziraphale, simply because he _could._

It took another hour, but the book migration either came to an end or was given up on. The bookshop’s sign flipped to “closed”. Aziraphale looked up with a pleased sigh, mild surprise flickering across his face as he took in Crowley’s position and intense stare. 

“My dear, have you been waiting there this entire time?” 

For a moment, he considered his options. The truthful answer _\- yes, because you’re happy and it makes me happy to see you happy -_ was very much not his style. “Was causing mischief,” he said, and quickly rearranged the nearest bookshelf to save face. “Very important. Very demonic. You wouldn’t like it.” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Crowley wandered forward and kissed it. Because he could. 

When he finally moved away, Aziraphale beamed at him. “You do so indulge me,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made Crowley raise one eyebrow. 

_“Do_ I?” He circled to Aziraphale’s other side, slipped an arm around his waist. Knew he’d heard correctly when there was no protest, just a pleased sigh and a hand over his chest, the thumb brushing over his collarbone. Yes, this day was going _very_ well indeed. “What is it that needs indulging now, then?” 

He had expected a laugh, and then a plain declaration. Aziraphale, he had learned, was not as flustered by sex as it seemed he should be. Which was very nice, at least after Crowley had gotten over the initial shock of hearing “ _do_ please come over here and _fuck me,_ Crowley” out of an angelically prim mouth. 

(Crowley had frozen as he tried to figure out whether he was about to pass out, wake up from the dream he was certainly having, or grab Aziraphale, pull him down onto the bed, and do precisely that. The latter had won out.) 

Instead of a declaration, though, he got a question. 

“Would you mind terribly giving yourself a bladder again?” 

Crowley considered his options for the second time in ten minutes. He did this while trying to project the aura of someone who had _very_ certainly gotten rid of the bladder in the first place, and _definitely_ hadn’t kept it for several months on the off chance Aziraphale would want it again. 

“Mhm,” he said. “Er, that is. No, I wouldn’t mind. Yes.” 

“Oh, _delightful_ ,” hummed Aziraphale. 

Crowley, affecting the most casual manner he could, decided that his hand would be better with a glass of water in it. It was, at least until he tipped the entire thing down his throat at once. 

“‘S going to take all afternoon, though,” he said, once his mouth was clear again. “Very boring. Come sit with me.” 

“Of course, darling. Do you want tea? I’ll make you some tea.” 

“What - _no_ , just come sit with me.” He manoeuvred them onto the sofa. Once Aziraphale was seated, Crowley slid his way over so that his head was on his lap, then slipped his sunglasses off and tossed them aside. (Aziraphale loved him very noticeably for that, almost to the point of glowing again and rendering the lenses necessary after all.) “Cheers.” 

Another glass of water, which he drank reclining, with angelic hands playing with his hair. He could, he thought, get used to this. It was a nice way to end a very good day. 

An hour passed, and then another. Eventually, Crowley let Aziraphale make him some tea, which he drank with multiple lumps of sugar in it which he barely even tasted. _That_ made itself known much faster than the water. Perhaps he should suspect foul play, or perhaps that was just how tea worked when you were running with human limitations. 

Blast the tea, that was actually uncomfortable. 

“What’d’you even like about this,” he muttered at around hour three, mostly as a distraction from the inevitable. Aziraphale gave it some thought, though, carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair as he hummed. 

“Well, it’s tension and release, isn’t it?” he said, finally. “More relief than pleasure, of course, but they’re really two ways of looking at the same thing.” A soft hand was brushing over his cheek. He leaned into it, because he _could_ and therefore it was imperative. “I do so love to watch you lose control, that’s all. To the point where you just can’t help yourself anymore. You’re so beautiful.” 

The words were heady and spoken low. Crowley’s easily confused cock made a valiant attempt to harden before remembering the memo that he’d rather piss instead. Aziraphale noticed the twitch through the _(_ _very_ tight) trousers, and wiggled his shoulders happily. 

Crowley rolled his eyes, but even he could feel the fondness in it. 

At hour four, there was more tea. It was becoming difficult to concentrate on anything for longer than a few seconds, and Crowley downed the cupful in record time. He didn’t even complain when he was poured another, though his hand had a slight tremor. 

A cramp ran through his bladder as he finished the dregs, and he hissed out a breath through his teeth. 

“Angel?” He said, as lightly as he could manage. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Are we going to move this anywhere, or…” 

“Oh, did you want to?” 

“If you’re fond of this sofa, we really should.” Saying the words made a slight flush rise to his face. _Ridiculous_ , he scolded himself. _This is what he wants, it’s fine._

Very much what Aziraphale wanted, it would seem, since Crowley was at an excellent vantage point to notice him hardening in his trousers. For the four seconds of his current attention span, he was delighted. Then his bladder tensed, and he groaned, turning his face further into Aziraphale’s lap and mouthing through the fabric at the bulge there as another distraction. He was rewarded with a pleased sigh, and wasn’t that a nice sound _ohshithehadtopissfuckwhy-_

“Angel, I’m _serious -”_

“Up, if you please.” Brisk, a little breathless, and not a request. Crowley sat up, a high whine slipping out of his mouth as the liquid shifted. “You’re doing so well. Sit astride me, won’t you?” 

Managing to do that while _not_ losing control and wetting the both of them was a feat in and of itself, but it worked. He ended up with one thigh on either side of Aziraphale’s legs, leaning forward and down to press their foreheads together. Aziraphale’s pupils were blown wide. Somehow he doubted his were any better. “Angel -” 

“Does it hurt, darling?” 

“No - yes -” It was less of a _hurt,_ between cramps at least, than a desperate knowledge that all of this liquid had to go somewhere _nowfucknow._ Having his legs spread this far was also not helping. He hadn’t even noticed, but there were a few drops dampening the front of his jeans. “It’s fine, Aziraphale, it’s fine, I just -” 

“Shh, then, you’re doing wonderfully.” 

“If ‘doing wonderfully’ means about to piss all over us both then -” the words came out in a desperate rush. “Mmngh -” Forgetting dignity for a moment, he shifted his hips forward, then back, trying to find even a marginally more comfortable position. His hands plucked at Aziraphale’s shirt, which reminded him. “I swear to- to Earth, if you expect me to miracle away whatever stains this puts on your bleeding waistcoat -” 

“Oh! Thank you, dear, I hadn’t considered.” With a snap of fingers, Aziraphale was entirely naked. Crowley, in his lap, was still entirely clothed, and wasn’t _that_ a bit of a thrill. 

For three-point-five seconds, at least, before it was washed away by urgency. He ground himself down, against Aziraphale’s now-fully-hard cock, in search of pressure. Something to help hold for just a bit longer. 

_“Please,”_ he said, barely a breath, but between his spread legs and the way Aziraphale was running his hands up and down his sides, sliding under his shirt and vest, he was leaking again, helpless to stop it. “Look, angel, I can’t, I’m going to, I -” 

“No. Wait.” 

“I _can’t!”_ It was louder than he meant for it to be, and it sounded broken. It was the truth, though, a furious spasm running through him and warning him that in about two seconds, everything he’d drunk was going to be outside of him whether he liked it or not. “I am about to fucking piss myself on you, I can’t _wait_ , I can’t -” 

“Then don’t, darling.” And Aziraphale, that utter, _glorious_ bastard, ran his hand down the small of his back to the waistband of his jeans, gripped the belt loop just under it, and yanked backwards, hard. 

Crowley’s belt buckle drove directly into his bladder as the next cramp hit. 

It felt like all the liquid in him was trying to rush out at once, for a moment, more _overwhelming_ than anything else - and then the relief crashed over him. 

“Ah - oh. _Ohhh, oh, oh.”_

His pants and jeans were soaked in seconds, but there just seemed to be more and more, and Aziraphale was gasping, and really all Crowley could do was drop his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and carry on wetting himself. 

He was out of breath. It was running off of the sofa cushions, now, and pooling around where they sat, and it should have been disgusting, but all he could feel was relief, the steady flow of liquid. 

Aziraphale groaned, and reached for the fastenings on his trousers. When his hand brushed against Crowley’s bladder, Crowley groaned into his shoulder, still pissing against him. 

“‘M not done,” he managed to get out, but couldn’t dredge up any shame. Instead, he felt Aziraphale choke out a cry and grind up against him until he froze, and suddenly there were streaks of come across his soaked clothes and a loud moan in Aziraphale’s chest. 

Crowley shivered, kissed at whatever parts of shoulder and neck he could reach. The occasional spasm or twitch still ran through him where he sat sprawled across Aziraphale, adding a few more drips and drops to the mess, but even those slowed, until eventually one small final spurt ran into his jeans.

Crowley sighed, then, and went somehow even more limp, listening to Aziraphale’s breathless laugh, followed by a quiet murmur of endearments. _You were amazing, you’re so sweet to me, so indulgent, you did so well, I do love you so._

Almost despite himself, he felt his cock stir. Whether it was the unspeakable relief or the praise or just the tone of his voice, he couldn’t say. 

“Are you all right, dearest?” 

“Mmgh. Mhm.” 

“What do you need?” A finger snap, and they were clean and dry, Aziraphale in a shirt and trousers (but no waistcoat) and Crowley in silk pyjamas. “Would you like me to take care of that-” a slow caress of his erection through the fabric - “or would you rather sleep?” 

“Love you, angel.” 

An amused little laugh, and a kiss. “I love you more dearly than anything in this world, Crowley. But you didn’t answer my question.” 

“C’n I have your hand?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit, and he slid a hand down to wrap around him. 

_Love you, angel,_ Crowley thought, though it didn’t make it to his mouth over the pleased sigh. _I love you, angel,_ he thought, as his hips bucked up with no input from his brain, as he spilled over Aziraphale’s hand with a quiet cry to more whispered encouragement. _I love you, I love you, I love you -_

_I love you, angel._

It never did make it out of his mouth, but from the way Aziraphale beamed at him and let him pull him down to sleep on the sofa (which was not nearly big enough for two human-shaped beings laying side by side, not really), Crowley was certain his point had made it across.   



End file.
